


Mike

by telekinesiskid



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Desperation, Johns and Janes, POV Second Person, Prostitution, The Dream Thieves Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-13 19:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5714971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid/pseuds/telekinesiskid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ll have to omit this particular detail from your ‘rags to riches’ story. </p>
<p>(Set during DT, Adam finds an alternative way to pay for the spike in his school fees).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> eyyyy it's that time of year again - time to write way way way too much junk, this time for a completely new fandom!!
> 
> pls go easy on me - I haven't actually FINISHED DT yet, so, like, just for example, if ya'll wondering why Adam is still alive or something, it's because I haven't read that far :V
> 
> also pls go easy on me in general :v I love Adam, I really do, but my gf helped me develop this idea really thoroughly so... we'll see how many ppl hate it haha........

You have what you hope are a couple of very sensible and reasonable conditions. No anal. Condoms where necessary. You don’t want to be pleasured; you’re just here to please. You’ll clearly state your price and consent when, and only when, your client assures you that they have the money. You don’t need it up front; you just have to see it. You’ll be lucky if the mere sight of cash won’t turn you on.

They’re hard rules, for now at least. By the end of the week, if there’s still no clientele, or if your rules are directly dissuading clientele, you imagine they could be a little more… flexible. School fees won’t wait.

You don’t know what rent boys wear. You don’t own many clothes beyond your second-hand Aglionby uniform, but you managed to fit into a pair of old jeans with the knees and inseams scuffed clean off. They did up around your hips just fine – your bones protrude further out now than they used to – but they’re too short to cover your ankles. It’s fine, you tell yourself. It’s ‘fashion’.

It’s a cool night for summer, but you know that you ought to show a little more skin than just your ankles if you’re hoping people will take an interest in you. You had arrived at nine to stand outside a local dive bar in a threadbare jersey, but now you’ve tied it low around your hips, revealing a pale blue shirt so old that the logo has faded or worn clean off. It also is too small for you; it clings to your modest display of work-earned muscle and doesn’t quite touch the start of your jeans, showing another thin line of skin that you hope at least appears more tantalising than it feels. To you, it just feels odd and cropped. It’s another gap in your armour, letting the cold in.

Every now and again it hits you – what you’re doing, where you are, the kinds of people you are trying to pull for cash. But then you think of Gansey, his manor, his mother’s campaign, his banquets and entrees and live concerts, and dinner guests decked out in million dollar suits and smiles, and you want to be the one to throw money at _him_ for a change.

You just keep holding onto it, that impossible dream. You don’t settle for anything less.

Even if it comes to this.

You’d prefer it if women picked you up rather than men, but there’s no helping that. You’d read somewhere – whether it was pop psychology or not – that women don’t pursue sex nearly as much as men, seeking emotional connection over physical intimacy. Of all the older women and young ladies you’ve managed to catch the eyes of, they just flashed you the briefest of flattering smiles and hurried on their way, either in groups or alone. It’s only the men who seem to actually slow and stare at you, wondering if you really are what you look like. Gay men, you think. Or men who pretend to be 100% bona fide heterosexual. You’re still not sure whether those are the sorts of men you should trust more or trust less.

 An ideal set-up, you would think, is if you somehow managed your own flat with a lovely but lonely landlady. Someone who let you know that, between your jobs and your studies, there was a little yard work or house work you could take up for some much-appreciated payment in return. Someone who would be far too polite or reserved to ask, but who would accept your offer, no matter the price. Someone you could trust. Someone who was kind and thankful and who would understand your situation and never fall in love. Someone who could make everything just that bit easier for you, without leaving you feeling anymore in debt to others than you already do.

It’s an ideal. And most certainly unfeasible.

You shuffle around your little spot outside the dive bar, trying to keep warm, trying to shake the jitters from your legs. You feel like you’ve swallowed enough second-hand smoke to see you out at sixty, and the cold breeze has started to wrack your shoulders and teeth with shivers. Goosebumps prick all up your tan arms – honestly, you could handle yourself much better in the sun or in the muggy heat of some faraway country better known for its sex tourism – and you can plainly see your erect nipples through your thin cotton shirt. It’s embarrassing, but you hope it works in your favour.

It’s a man who looks to be about forty or fifty who first approaches you. He hesitates as he passes you, his beady little eyes – made small from his wire-frame glasses – peer up at you, greasy hair parted and combed to the left, mouth open and panting like his nose can’t inhale his breaths for him anymore. He’s unnervingly close to the stereotype but not quite; if he had a copstash standard and a seventies style to boot, you’d half-consider sending him on his way.

You remind yourself one more time: beggars can’t be choosers.

You flash a smile that feels so forced to you, but you hope that it appears genuine to him. You need to look friendly, welcoming, open for business. “Hi,” you call out to him.

His pace slows to a complete stop as he stares at you, in your face this time. He ducks his head and minds a chatty group as they walk on – they take no notice of either of you – and you go very still as he comes to stand a little too close to you. His brown eyes dart back and forth between the two of yours, so fervent and intense. “Hello,” he finally says, voice reminiscent of a predator who hasn’t quite hit his stride yet, and you try not to wince at the stench of tobacco and tuna. It’s not a pleasant combination.

You’re not usually this cruel. You’re sure you wouldn’t find so many faults with this unpopped zit of a man if you weren’t too focused on the fact that you’ll have to touch him.

_Do you want to get out of this town or not?_

He stammers a little as he talks. “A-And who might you be?”

You pause. You don’t know whether he’s asking for your name or what it is that you do. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that anyone would ask for your name; you had imagined people would let you know they’re talking to you when they said ‘hey’ or ‘kid’ or ‘bum boy’.

You know that there’s nothing particularly unique or memorable about ‘Adam’, even in a town like this, but it’s the absolute last thing you want – for any one of these creeps who pay for your sex to learn your name, to have any further identifiers over you. So you blurt out the first name you think of: “Mike. And… I’m whoever you want me to be.”

You almost wince at your own corny lines, but you’re glad that he doesn’t. He exhales loud and slow and ragged under his breath like he knows exactly what you’re getting at. Good, you think. You won’t have to actually verbalise the depths to which you are sinking in the name of ‘independence’.

You feel something touch your arm and you freeze as you realise that it’s this man’s finger, lightly trailing up your skin like an insect you badly need to smack, but you can’t. You’re still learning. You’re not really a person with personal space and rights and ambitions anymore; you’re a piece of fine meat, a vessel for sex, a dispenser that money goes into and pleasure comes out of. You’re an airhead dream boy who takes all sorts without complaint and smiles until his face bleeds.

No, that’s not what you are. That’s what _Mike_ is. You’re playing Mike right now and you’ll be Adam again by tomorrow.

Mike.

You wonder if you pulled that name from that film _Magic Mike._ You’ve never seen it.

“You’re a very handsome boy, Mike,” the man purrs – his voice is low and raspy enough that it’s more of a growl than a purr – and you swallow, a little too hard. You feel your whole back erupt with prickles, the kind you get when you’re too cold or afraid. You heave with the fear of endless possibilities and the fear of someone you don’t know touching you, but you try to keep it together. You grit your teeth. _It’s for the money._

“Thank you,” you respond. You sound hollow, but the man seems too distracted by the little glimpse of your treasure trail. You notice that your shirt has somehow ridden up to your waist and you self-consciously try to pull it back down. It just seems to ping back up even higher.

You’ve gone quiet. You don’t know what to say. The man has obviously done this at least once more than you because he turns and half-gestures down the street, paving the way, showing the script. “Would you… like to accompany me to my vehicle?”

You flash a brighter smile at him and nod, pushing off from the chilly brick wall. You walk just a little ways behind him, your legs like jelly, your entire upper torso frozen and stiff. He keeps glancing over his shoulder to check that you’re following him and haven’t taken off yet and you feel so very, very afraid. You wonder what they’ll say about you in the papers a week from now, what comments your friends will make. _Local Boy’s Mutilated Body Found in a Ditch after Failed Self-Prostitution Attempt._ They’ll be talking about you for years to come. God, you hope Gansey buys out a whole flower store for your funeral. You hope he starts a scholarship in your name for poor, stupid boys like you.

You wonder if next time you should be drunk for this. Ronan tells you that life is so much easier when sobriety is a just faraway concept that eludes your memory.

But you need to be sharp and focused. In case you _are_ headed for that ditch.

He leads you to what looks like a 70s Chevrolet but feels like a windowless van. You manage to strike up a small conversation about the make and model to stem the tide of fear sweeping through you, drowning out all reason. You manage to distract yourself long enough to not make the conscious decision to get inside his vehicle, and then it’s done. You slam the door closed like the lid on your own coffin.

Your heart thumps in your chest. You think you know the warning signs: locked doors, probing questions, stashes of weapons and needles – but there’s none of that. The very first thing he asks you, quite genially, is, “H-How far are you willing to go?”

You stare at him. You suddenly remember to smile. “Oral.”

He nods once. You were tense as you gave that answer, but you’re surprised to see that he accepts it without complaint. “And… do you, uh… cuddle?”

You blink. “I… suppose I can.” _Smile._ “For one hour.”

He nods rapidly, head bobbing up and down like you couldn’t have made a more perfect offer. Except you know that you could have. But you want to minimise the amount of time you spend with this man; even for a thousand dollars you’re not sure you would risk sleeping in a stranger’s bed. What’s the point in trying to fund your future if you have to endanger yourself to get it?

More than this, anyway.

“That sounds good. Your place or-?”

“Your place.” Aside from the fact that you technically live above a church – a Catholic one at that, God – you can’t risk Gansey or Blue or anyone seeing how exactly it is you’re paying your way through school.

“Oh! Good, very good. Ah, m-my place is just a few blocks from here.” He points past you. “Not far at all.”

You nod as you buckle up. You want to negotiate your price now, but you feel like an asshole doing it. More business than pleasure. But maybe Mike can be more upfront and confrontational than you.

You looked it up online before you went out. You know how much professionals do it for; you’re not entirely sure that a rookie who has had literally no experience in that department can honestly ask for even a fraction of those fees. But you’re going to try. The door-in-the-face technique; you’ll follow up your ridiculous demand with a smaller, more reasonable one by comparison.

“It’ll be a hundred,” you tell him before he can start the car.

You let him think about it for a moment. “How about eighty,” he compromises, and you’re just about to negotiate the monetary value of your mouth until he adds, “and a free dinner? Roast beef?”

You pause. God knows when the last time you had a decent meal was, let alone a roast. You don’t think you’ve ever had a roast that wasn’t school-catered before.

Your mouth waters and your empty stomach aches, but your nerves creep up on you like a million little spiders on the back of your neck. You can buy your own food when you’re done with him.

You think you’ll have to add it to your list of rules: No taking food from strangers, not matter how hungry you are.

“I’ll pass,” you say carefully. “Can we make it ninety?”

“Could I kiss you?”

It takes no small amount of effort to repress the impulse to wrinkle your nose. You remind yourself that a kiss is harmless, as much as it may be unpleasant.

“Okay,” you agree, and you let him drive you to his home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao so this plot or my writing or a combination of both hasn't seemed to take too well, so I may or may not continue, but I may as well chuck out what I've already written!!
> 
> er, warning for some minor grossness? ??? and a meme haha yeah that deserves fair warning too.

You had planned in advance to meet Gansey the next morning at Monmouth, just on the off-chance you would be whisked away by a malevolent stranger with no leads to follow. You show up at his place almost an hour earlier than you said you’d be there with your uniform draped over one arm, and the very first thing you ask him is if you can use his shower because yours is broken.

It killed you, little by little, well into the night. You let the man – Henry, you learnt his name was – drop you back off at the dive bar, and you started the walk back to your flat above St Agnes. You stopped by an open-all-hours convenience store and walked out with a stale ham and cheese sandwich stuffed in your face. You ate it too fast, and you wished you’d slowed down and savoured it more because you still couldn’t get that taste out of your mouth. Salty, sweaty. Off.

You pulled a pube from between your teeth and stopped to retch into in the gutter, but you didn’t lose your dinner. You paid three whole fucking dollars for that dinner.

All you could think about was a proper shower – you didn’t even care how cold the water would be – and to find that your stuttering, glugging showerhead finally gave out barely a minute into washing the filth from your face finally pushed you to tears.

You’d slept poorly, fitful and broken and greasy. When you weren’t lying in bed, praying for sleep to find you like a brick to the head, you spent the early hours of your morning in your bathroom, rinsing out your mouth with soap, brushing your teeth over and over again. As if the third or fourth time achieved anything.

Hours later and you can still taste your first John’s cock now. The memory of it burns through your red-raw clean mouth.

The hot, high-pressure shower helps at least. You leave Monmouth’s bathroom in your uniform, hair damp, smelling like a pampered rich boy: like ocean breeze-scented brand-name soap.

Gansey’s just at his desk, doing some last-minute homework that you’ve already completed and turned in. You sit on the end of his bed, facing him. From your school backpack, you trade a few textbooks for your non-school clothes. You also pull out some cheap bread that Gansey seems surprised to see you with. You chew at it miserably as you read over the sections that cover today’s class topics. Ronan isn’t anywhere near up yet. But to his credit, school isn’t anywhere near close to starting yet.

You feel Gansey’s eyes watching you, not working. “You look tired,” he tells you and you grunt back. “Yeah. I didn’t sleep very well either. What happened to your shower?”

You turn a page. “It just broke.”

“That’s unfortunate. Ley line surges?”

You know that he’s joking but you just don’t have it in you to even fake a laugh. You did more than enough faking last night to wear you out.

You can tell that something about you is bothering him. You notice from the corner of your eye that he only manages to write another few words down before his sad, tired eyes are stuck back on you. Honestly, you thought you always were this quiet and reserved, but part of you begins to fret that he knows. He’s Richard Gansey the Third, miracle boy, with a keen sense of mystery, and somehow he just _knows_ what you put yourself through for a measly ninety dollars.

Except that ninety dollars is not at all measly to you. It’s measly to Gansey.

“How are you doing?” he asks, and you already know what he means before he clarifies, “money-wise?”

“I’m doing good,” you respond airily. You want to leave it at that but you know that he won’t. He probably wants to prod you about letting him pay for the spike in your tuition fees, but you’re really not in the mood to start another argument with him. “All you need to know is that I’m coping.”

“See, now,” he closes his book and you sigh, “what does that mean? I see that you’re still eating, which is obviously the most important thing, but-”

You don’t care for this. You don’t want to have to constantly console him about your _own_ dismal situation; it’s not fair. You don’t understand why he can’t just _drop it,_ why he can’t seem to shut off his capacity to care and worry about you, even when you’ve left his field of vision.

“I picked up a new part-time job,” you say vaguely. Well, it’s not a lie. “It… It pays well.”

He makes a face that’s both brighter and dampened, like he’s happy for you just as much as he finds your life even more wretched. “Well, that’s… something. Doing what?”

 _Whoring._ “Oh, just another job fixing up old cars. It’s uh, sort of hard to explain. Just car stuff.”

He nods once. “Ah… Same place?”

“Yep. I basically just took up some more work. So, you see,” you raise your head and level what feels like a cold look at him. You know in your heart that if he ever found out the truth it would kill him, like it was _his_ fault he couldn’t save you from yourself. _I’m not a problem you can solve by just throwing money at._ “I’m doing well for myself. I’m coping.”

You know every little quirk of Gansey’s many expressions and what they all mean. You can see, clear as day, from the odd curve of his smile and his flat eyes, that he doesn’t really believe you. “I wouldn’t really consider ‘doing well’ and ‘coping’ the same thing.”

You stare back. You feel a little like punching him.

You both jump as Ronan – dressed only in boxes – loudly bursts from his bedroom, door smacking into the wall. He doesn’t seem very surprised to see you there – more annoyed and inexplicably bitter. “Quarrelling again,” he sneers as he crosses the room. “Trouble in paradise?”

Gansey frowns at him.

“You’re the one who’s married to Gansey, not me,” you say, too quiet and soft to be an actual rebuttal.

He seems to hear you just fine; he waves a dismissive arm at you and cries, “ _Whatever, Parrish,_ ” as he locks himself in the bathroom.

You hear the taps run and you glance back at Gansey. He seems about as reluctant to meet your eye as you are.

“Just…” His voice is small, resigned. He looks as though he already knows he’s wasting his breath, but he wastes it on you and another assurance anyway. “If you’re ever _not_ coping, then… I’m here. Not just my inflated wallet and trust fund, but _me._ ”

There’s something a little pained to his expression when he next looks at you – pained and heartfelt. It makes your heart sink.

“Sure,” you promise.

From the bathroom, you hear Ronan tunelessly warble out a song: “ _Why the fuck you lyin’? Why you always lyin’?”_


End file.
